Tiger, Tiger
by KCS
Summary: An old and very dangerous enemy reappears in Baker Street, intent on wreaking revenge on the two men responsible for the ruination of his schemes and the years of life he lost in prison. Final part of the 'Greater Love' trilogy.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

_Tiger, Tiger, burning bright  
In the forests of the night,  
What immortal hand or eye  
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

_-William Blake_

**A/N: Elecktrum sent a plot bunny hopping my way, and I think I shall be doing it as my next fic. **

**Disclaimer:** If I owned them, would I be writing fanfiction? Like duh.

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I have endeavored, throughout these scattered memoirs of the cases I shared with the world's most foremost consulting detective, to put before the public only those problems which either gave my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a field for his special powers or ones whose bizarre and outré features more than made up for the simplicity of their solutions.

It has not been a practice of mine to lay before readers cases which touched either Holmes or myself in a personal nature, the events of said cases usually being too private for public consumption.

However, I feel that I must, for my own sake only if this account never sees the light of publication, put down on paper the events which occurred in the spring of 1899, so that I may long remember their poignancy after the emotion of said events has worn off.

I shall now devote my energies to recalling accurately the sordid drama that was forced upon Holmes and myself in early May of that year.

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**_Just a teaser. More to follow, naturally._**


	2. A Tiger Loose

_**A Tiger Loose**_

_Catching a tiger is easier than letting one go. – Chinese proverb_

* * *

As I remember, spring had come that year to London with surprising mildness. At the close of April 1899, each day seemed to dawn brighter than the one before, and the normal rain that so characterized London seemed to have taken a permanent holiday.

In consequence, Holmes and I had spent a good deal of our free time strolling about the city that he regarded as his own personal domain after the demise of his nemesis, Professor Moriarty, eight years previously.

Each year around this time, my thoughts always reverted to that most climactic case. More so now than formerly, since I had learnt last winter the true facts behind the events I have recorded as the Adventure of the Final Problem.

I had been shocked beyond measure to learn that the events of that case had revolved around me, not Holmes, and that my friend had been willing to give up his freedom, and very nearly his life, for the purpose of protecting me from the machinations of that most awful of opponents.

Such knowledge had deepened the regard I held for the man to no little extent, and in those days our friendship had deepened even more, now that we had known each other for nearly two decades.

Holmes had changed in some respects since his return to London in 1894, and one of those very welcome differences was the way he acted when not engaged on a case.

Whereas he used to sulk, refuse to eat, and revert to that dreaded drug I had tried so hard but with limited success to free him of, he now tried to find other ways of occupying his time, such as going for walks with me like the one we had been out upon the day the trouble began.

I shall never forget the day in question – it was a beautiful, warm day in late April. We had wandered around London for nearly two hours, arm in arm, watching the hustle and bustle of our fair city.

Walking with Sherlock Holmes was never a dull experience – he never failed to use his powers to make outrageous deductions about the people we passed. I have said elsewhere in these incoherent memoirs that the man was gifted with an extraordinary genius for minutae, and the topics of conversation he had at his disposal were endless.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that I realized two hours had gone by in my friend's company.

"Dear me, Holmes, we probably should be heading back home – Mrs. Hudson said if we were late for tea one more time she would cease serving it altogether at Baker Street!" I said, remembering the good woman's indignation the last time this had happened with some discomfort.

Holmes merely laughed, of course. "I am sure she will not sulk for long, Watson."

"Yes, well, Holmes, one half of this partnership, at least, likes to actually _eat_ three meals a day! I for one never professed to being a brain and the rest of me a mere appendix!"

He laughed lightly but acquiesced to my pleading, and we turned our steps toward Baker Street.

I remember distinctly how beautiful the day was, with the spring sun shining warmly down on the buildings we passed, bathing them in a golden glow that made even the alleys of London seem new and clean.

I recall mentioning to Holmes how perfectly gorgeous this spring was turning out to be – I remember because of the events that began to happen with terrible rapidity, soon shattering the beauty of that day.

As we started to cross a street, he snorted at my remark and began launching one of his tirades about romantic imaginings. I was so busy defending my position in our friendly argument that I did not see the four-wheeler come flying round the corner until it was too late.

Thank God, Holmes had been more aware of our surroundings.

"Watson, look out!"

I heard his frantic warning shout at the same time as the clatter of fast-approaching hooves. His cry was accompanied by a very violent tackle, the momentum of which carried us both crashing to the pavement just out of harm's way.

My head struck the sidewalk with considerable force, and for a moment my vision was quite blurred. I could hear perfectly, however, the cab whizzing by us at an abnormally fast clip. Had it not been for Holmes's quick action, we would both have been run down by that insane driver.

"Watson? Are you hurt, old chap?"

I heard Holmes's voice for several seconds before my vision finally cleared. He was bending over me, oblivious to the odd looks we were getting from passers-by, staring anxiously at my face.

I tried to sit up and gasped as a pain shot through my head.

"Lie still, Watson!"

"No, no, Holmes, I'm fine," I said, finally managing to sit up with his help, "I just struck my head, that is all." I rubbed gingerly at the offending spot, hoping I did not have a concussion.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, quite," I replied.

The look of intense worry that had been on his face now faded into a thoughtful but angry glare. He slung my arm over his thin shoulders and helped me to my feet.

"That imbecile could have killed us both!" he snarled, his voice an angry hiss.

"He probably would have, had it - not been for your quick reflexes, Holmes," I said, wishing the world would hold still for more than a moment at a time. "I doubt if I've ever seen a better tackle - on any rugby field."

"Watson, you are walking a trifle unsteadily. Are you sure you are feeling quite well?"

As a matter of fact, I was not. Increasing dizziness was making me feel quite ill, and I began to categorize the sensations as the indications of a probable concussion.

As if to add credence to my thoughts, I was suddenly attacked by such a wave of dizziness that I involuntarily clutched at Holmes's arm to keep from falling.

"Watson!"

"Sorry, Holmes," I gasped, realizing the dizziness was not, as I had hoped, going to pass, "perhaps you had better – better call – a cab, I am afraid I –" my voice trailed off as the world seemed to whirl around me, making me completely lose my tentative balance.

I dimly heard Holmes frantic voice and felt his strong arms trying to keep me upright before my clouded vision washed entirely to black.

* * *

When my vision had begun to clear once again, the objects around me came slowly into focus, the foremost one in my line of vision being Holmes's worried face a few feet from my own.

When I could see him clearly, he sighed with relief and slumped back into the chair he had pulled up beside the couch – I realized I was in our sitting room back at Baker Street.

"Thank God, Watson – you gave me quite a fright," he breathed, lighting his pipe with an unsteady hand.

"I'm – sorry, Holmes," I said weakly, trying to remember what exactly had happened. As I knew was usual with the effects of a concussion, my memory might be slow in returning.

"Don't be, my dear fellow - it was not your fault. A doctor had seen what happened and came hurrying up to me just after you collapsed. He came back here with me and told me you had a slight concussion, but as long as you do not exert yourself for a few hours, you should feel much better tomorrow."

Now the events were coming back to me.

"What of the four-wheeler, Holmes? Do you suppose that driver was just an idiot or was it someone trying to kill us?"

"I don't know, Watson," he muttered, thoughtfully smoking his pipe, "I don't know. But we are both rather lucky he did not succeed, I think."

I echoed Holmes's words, trying to not move any more than possible – I had a headache to end all headaches. Holmes must have noticed my look of pain.

"Can I get you anything, Watson?" he asked solicitously.

I was prevented from answering him by a rushing of feet on the stairs outside. I had not heard the bell ring, and I wondered if Holmes had. Whoever it was was certainly in a dreadful hurry.

Holmes turned to me, puzzled, and I raised my eyebrows to match his look. Then the door burst open and Inspector Lestrade rushed into the room, nearly bowling Holmes over with his momentum.

"Hold up, Lestrade! What the deuce is the matter, man?" Holmes asked, pushing the man upright.

"Mr. Holmes, thank God I got here in time – Doctor, what happened to you?" he asked, seeing me for the first time lying on the couch.

"We were nearly run down by a cab in Oxford Street, Lestrade. But for heaven's sakes, man, why in the world did you come barreling in here so unceremoniously?" Holmes asked, his patience running rather thin.

"I came as soon as I heard the news, Mr. Holmes – I was so afraid he might beat me here!"

"_Who,_ Lestrade?! Out with it man, you are not making any sense!" my friend cried in exasperation.

The official took a deep breath to steady himself and went on, "We just got word at the Yard not an hour ago – Colonel Sebastian Moran escaped from Dartmoor Prison early this morning. He was seen in London just over an hour ago!"

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**_To be continued - thanks for reading! Please review!_**


	3. Preventative Measures

_**Preventative Measures**_

_Three people equal one tiger. – Chinese proverb_

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I would like to remind readers that, if you have not yet read my stories _Greater Love_ and _A Man's Home_, I would do so before reading this fic.

_**No, this is not a plug – you simply will not understand parts of this story if you have not read those two.**

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_

My face must have matched Holmes's own as the color drained from it. Lestrade made his announcement between gasps, trying desperately to get his breath back after his exertions, and my attention then turned to my friend.

His face had gone chalk-white, and he almost collapsed rather than sat in the nearest chair.

"Are you certain of this, Lestrade?" I asked.

The police inspector took another deep breath to steady himself, and then sat down in the chair beside me that Holmes had vacated.

"Yes, Doctor. We received the news – let me see – an hour and twenty minutes ago that he had escaped while being transferred to another cell in Dartmoor early this morning. Killed two guards with his bare hands, took their weapons and shot his way out of the prison, killing three more guards and wounding several others."

Shocked, I glanced at Holmes, who was merely looking into space, staring at nothing.

"Go on, Lestrade."

"It was not long after we got the news that an Inspector – you remember Collins, Doctor? No matter – he came in and told us that Moran had been seen at Euston Station. Collins had recognized him because he had followed the Adair murder business with some eagerness back in '94. He lost Moran in the crowd but came right straight back to tell us. Mr. Holmes, are you all right, sir?"

Holmes stiffened and then looked at us. "Yes, Inspector. Pray continue."

I shot him a long look that told him I for one did not believe him, and then I turned back to Lestrade.

"Well, that's all there is to tell, gentlemen. As soon as I heard I ran out of the station and grabbed the nearest cab – told the driver I'd give him a sovereign if he made it here in fifteen minutes, and I shouldn't like to have a ride like that again! – because I was sure Moran would be coming after the two of you. Thank God he hasn't shown up yet!"

I was touched by the man's obvious concern, and the way he had dropped all his duties at the Yard to come and warn us of Moran's escape. The throbbing in my head was beginning to slightly muddle my thinking, and so I looked back at Holmes for guidance.

But he was still sitting in the same position at the table, staring at the same spot on the wall.

"Lestrade," I said in a low voice.

"Doctor?"

"I think a brandy may be in order for Mr. Holmes."

He glanced over and nodded. "Two, I rather think," I heard him mutter as he walked over to the sideboard.

He poured a stiff glass for Holmes and walked over, holding it out to him. Again, my friend started, looked at the policeman, and then I was glad to see a small twitch of a smile cross his face.

My relief turned back to worry, however, when he drained the glass at one sitting.

Lestrade looked back at me.

"Take charge," I said, hoping Holmes would not hear me.

"Mr. Holmes, I should like to place a guard around this house, with your leave," the officer said.

"No." Holmes's statement was with a tone of deep finality.

"_Without_ your leave, then."

I almost snickered at the look on Holmes's face.

"No, Lestrade. This man is on a personal vendetta now, and he will stop at nothing. No one who gets in his way will be safe," Holmes said, finally looking Lestrade in the eye.

"That's exactly why I want a guard on this house!" the man exclaimed.

"Besides, I cannot see the superintendent justifying placing a guard on duty at the house belonging to the world's foremost detective," Holmes pointed out.

"Superintendent be hanged!" Lestrade expostulated, his outburst startling both of us, "I already asked that insufferable boor, and he did say there was not a point in it."

"You see, Lestrade?"

"See nothing, Mr. Holmes! Look here," he went on, somewhat calmer, "Gregson is working right now on a schedule of some of the boys who can take turns guarding this house on their off-duty hours. We had plenty of them willing to 'do a good turn for Mr. Holmes, sir.' In fact," Lestrade continued, glancing at the clock, "Gregson should be on his way here now with that list; I had not the time to wait for him to finish."

I stared at the policeman, my slowly-moving brain digesting what he had just said. And Holmes turned sharply to look at the man. Lestrade's wide eyes held nothing but worry. He really was serious, then.

I saw Holmes's face cloud over with some emotion that I had trouble laying my finger on, and Lestrade shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

Wanting to break the awkward silence that had followed his pronouncement, I spoke.

"You know these master criminals should escape more often, if it will make you and Gregson actually work together, Inspector."

Lestrade turned to look at me with a start, and I was rewarded to see Holmes smirk at the officer's back. He sent me a smile and then looked up as the front doorbell rang.

Instinctively I started to get up, wanting to get my revolver, but the pain in my head increased so much that I fell back, trying to repress a gasp of pain.

"Watson, I told you not to move!" Holmes's voice was sharp with strain and worry as he hurried over to me.

"Never mind, Holmes, get my revolver!"

He whirled and snatched it out of the top drawer of my desk, snapping the chamber into place. Then he motioned Lestrade into his bedroom and stood in front of the desk, gun in hand. I was dreadfully worried about his being alone and unguarded in the midst of the room – I could not even see the door from my position on the couch.

There was a knock, and Holmes shouted for the visitor to enter. Then, as the door opened, I saw his stern features relax, and he laid the gun back down.

"Gregson, do come in. Lestrade!" The other inspector emerged from Holmes's bedroom and nodded to his colleague.

"Mr. Holmes, may I ask you something?"

"Inspector?"

"How in the name of heaven can you sleep with all those criminals' faces staring down at you?" the man asked, shuddering at the thought of the décor in Holmes's bedroom.

I laughed out loud, having put the same question to Holmes several times over the years.

Gregson turned and looked at me with a question on his face.

"Moran made the first move, Inspector," I explained, "tried to run us down in Oxford Street about twenty minutes before Lestrade got here."

"I do apologize, Mr. Holmes, but we did not find out ourselves until Collins came off duty that Moran had been seen anywhere near London," Gregson said ruefully, looking back at Holmes.

"No one is to blame, Gregson. And I must say, I am quite flattered that you are taking such pains to protect Watson and myself."

Gregson colored and looked rather uncomfortable under Holmes's rare words, not being used to anything other than a curt explanation while on a case usually.

"Um, yes. Well, I suppose Lestrade has told you of the situation?"

"I told them everything, Gregson. Have you the plan for guarding the house?"

"Right here. Mr. Holmes, I'm giving you this copy of the schedule. All the men on it are ones that you know personally. If you ever discover that one of the guards on duty outside your door is not someone you know by sight at the Yard, then be wary – he probably is in Moran's employ."

I was surprised at the man's intelligence in his thinking, and I could see Holmes was as well.

"Thank you, Inspector, but it really is quite unnecessary –"

"It is _very _necessary, Mr. Holmes. Until Moran is caught, this schedule shall stand. Again, please watch to make sure you know the men on guard. If Moran corrupts the guard, you and the Doctor will be no better than trapped prey for whatever he intends. Roberts and Cummings are on duty now, Collins and McPherson take over at six this evening. The rest of the men are as follows on the schedule."

I could see Holmes was slightly uncomfortable with the whole business, these men taking their hours off to stand guard over our flat here. He shifted uneasily and cleared his throat, looking helplessly at me for what to say.

"Lestrade, Gregson?" I asked, trying to relieve the tension.

"Yes, Doctor?" they both replied at once, then glaring at each other afterwards. Their still-rivaling attitudes would have been comical, had the situation not been so grave.

"Thank you very much for taking these precautions for Mr. Holmes and myself. And please thank your men as well," I said quietly. "I do hope you do not get into trouble with the superintendent on our account."

"So do I," Gregson muttered. His colleague elbowed him sharply.

"Speaking of the devil, we had better head back to the Yard," Gregson hurriedly went on, "Mr. Holmes. I suppose I cannot expect you to remain in these rooms until Moran is caught, but I would strongly advise you against any foolhardy excursions."

Holmes nodded, still apparently at a loss for words.

"Right then. Come, Lestrade."

Lestrade rolled his eyes heavenward, scowling at his colleague's disappearing back, and then nodded a goodbye to Holmes and myself.

When the door had shut behind the two, Holmes got up and walked over to the window. After peering out from the side for a moment, he yanked down on the shade with more force than was necessary. Then he did the same to the other.

And stood there, staring at the blank shade, saying nothing.

"Holmes?"

He completely ignored me.

"Holmes, for heaven's sake, sit down!"

He remained in that position, staring at the window shade.

Sighing, I tentatively swung my legs over the side of the couch and was relieved when the throbbing in my head did not increase. I managed to make my feet without another severe attack of dizziness, and I began to slowly make my way over to him.

Evidently he was so preoccupied he had not heard my movement, because when I placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, he jumped as if he had been stung.

"Watson, for heaven's sake!"

"I did not mean to startle you, Holmes," I said, leaning against my desk for support, "but you simply have got to stop this brooding!"

"Watson, you should be lying down."

Holmes took my arm and led me back to the couch. But if he thought I would drop the subject, he was wrong. Once I had settled on the couch, I pointed to the seat beside me.

"Sit, Holmes."

He looked at me and quirked an eyebrow.

"You heard me!"

After a moment, he sat, looking at me expectantly.

"Holmes, I am perfectly able to take care of myself. You have nothing to fear on that point."

He visibly started, and I knew I had hit square on the heart of the matter.

"I mean it, Holmes."

He sighed, a little sadly. "How I wish I could believe that!" he said at last. "But you heard Moran when he was arrested, screaming how he would take revenge upon both of us. I believe he shall."

"He may try, Holmes. But that does not mean he has to succeed. There's an old proverb I heard once while in India, Holmes. _Three people equal one tiger._ Moriarty nearly succeeded in his plans in '91 because he separated us and I never knew the truth. Now that I do know, you can be sure I shall not leave you, and together we shall see Moran back behind bars where he belongs."

Holmes looked at me for a moment, and then he favored me with one of those quirky half-smiles.

"Three people equal one tiger, eh Watson? Who then is the third?"

"Lestrade, of course. Or would you rather have Gregson?"

I was relieved to see as I spoke in a jesting tone that the deep worry lines in his forehead had begun to fade slightly.

At my statement he laughed out loud. "I have always said those Yarders have only half a brain, anyway, Watson. Together they might make one."

If he was feeling better enough to tweak the officials of law and order, he was no longer in that deep despairing mood that he had been previously. I lay back and closed my eyes, safe in the knowledge that we would give this human tiger a fight he had not yet seen the likes of.

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**_To be continued! Thanks for reading - please review!_**


	4. A Waiting Game

_**A Waiting Game**_

_When trussing up a tiger, never tie it loosely. – Chinese proverb

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I spent the rest of that afternoon fitfully dozing; Holmes spent it in restless pacing. Finally my strained nerves snapped as he drummed his thin fingers on the table for the hundredth time that hour.

"Holmes! If you don't stop that, I shall give you a sedative!"

He jumped at the sound of my voice – we had not spoken in almost two hours.

"I thought you were asleep, Watson," he said, an annoyed look crossing his aquiline face.

I sighed, wishing that were the case. I was prevented from answering him by the entrance of Mrs. Hudson, carrying our supper.

"Doctor, it's good to see you looking a little better," the good woman said as she laid the dishes on the table, "you had us all worried this afternoon."

I sat up gingerly, but was relieved to find that the sharp pain in my head had receded to just a dull ache, and I was no longer dizzy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I suppose _I_ was to blame this time for not being back in time for tea, not Mr. Holmes," I said, glancing pointedly at my companion. I was worried to see that he did not so much as crack a smile.

Our worthy landlady sniffed disdainfully and finished laying the meal.

"Do you require anything else, Mr. Holmes?" she asked as I rose slowly from the couch.

Holmes was again staring at some invisible spot on the wall, and so I guided Mrs. Hudson out the door and explained the situation to her when we were in the hall.

"I believe it would be a good idea for you to leave the house for a few days, Mrs. Hudson," I said earnestly after my explanation, "because you would be horribly in the way if Moran were to try something."

She glared at me with that show of hidden spirit I knew existed somewhere under that demure demeanor, and I realized she had misunderstood my intent.

"I mean you would complicate matters and tie our hands, Mrs. Hudson – it is not that we do not trust you, it is that we need to have one less thing to worry about if Moran were to try something," I hastened to add.

The good woman's features softened a bit.

"It would definitely be a weight off both our minds if we knew you were out of harm's way," I finished gently.

"My sister has been after me to spend a week with her in Cornwall," she admitted, "but what shall you and Mr. Holmes do for meals and such while I am away?"

"We shall manage," I replied, "I doubt that either of us will be very hungry until this blows over, at any rate. Please do go, Mrs. Hudson. I am having enough trouble worrying about Holmes's well-being; I do not need another patient on my hands."

"_You_, Doctor, should not be attending to anyone but yourself until that headache goes away," the woman declared, seeing how I had begun to lean a bit on the wall.

I smiled. "I shall manage, Mrs. Hudson. Please leave tonight if possible. We will both rest better knowing we are the only ones in the house."

She gave me a long look. "I shall pack at once. And you, Doctor, go straight to bed after dinner! And make sure that Mr. Holmes eats something!"

And with that, the extraordinary woman flounced regally down the seventeen steps to the floor below.

I sighed tiredly and returned to the sitting room. Holmes was still in the same position I had left him; obviously his nerves were on raw edge.

"I promised Mrs. Hudson I would make you eat something, Holmes," I said, seating myself at the table and pointing to the other chair, "and frankly, I am too tired to fight with you about it. Get over here and sit down, this instant!"

Startled, he looked at me with some amusement, but I was glad he did actually come to the table and at least pick half-heartedly at the food I put on his plate.

"We need to get that woman out of the way," he suddenly said, staring at the roast with a scrutinizing gaze.

"For once, Holmes, my deductions were faster than yours. She is leaving for her sister's in Cornwall this very night," I replied, eyeing him for his reaction.

His head lifted, and I saw surprise and discomfiture in his gaze.

"Thank you, Watson," he said, dropping his eyes back down to the plate. I sighed once again, realizing nothing I could do was going to shake this dread weight off him.

We finished what little we ate of the meal in silence, and then he went to his pipe and I stacked the dishes on the tray and began to move toward the door with it. I met Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs and handed the articles off to her.

"I am leaving now, Doctor," she said, rattling off a list of things for me to remember while she was away.

I tried my best to listen, vaguely noting the fact that she had left enough cold food for several meals in the pantry and kitchen downstairs, and for me to be sure to light the fire every morning, and a dozen other little things I had no idea she did on a regular basis.

I saw her to the door, nodded to the two policemen guarding it, and watched as the cab took our landlady out of the danger zone. Shrinking back inside the door, I gazed out at the twilight, looking for any signs of danger.

I could see nothing. No loafers across the street, no suspicious characters loitering around, no movement in the houses opposite. Nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.

I was about to shut the door when I heard Holmes's imperious voice above me.

"Watson! Get out of that hall light! And close the door, man!"

I slammed the door with some force and turned round.

"I was merely seeing Mrs. Hudson to her cab, Holmes!"

"I do not care _what_ you were doing, Watson! Don't open that door again with the hall lamps lit!"

I sighed and began to climb the stairs back up to the sitting room. Holmes was standing in the doorway, and in the light of the lamp I could see his features drawn and worried. But before he turned to go back into the sitting room, I saw something else in them.

A characteristic I thought foreign to his inquisitive, courageous nature.

I saw fear. Deep, lurking, petrifying fear.

And that frightened me more than the thought of the most dangerous man in London being out for revenge against us.

It was with a cold, chilling feeling settling within me that I climbed the stairs to my room, tossing and turning for at least two or three hours before falling into a restless sleep.

* * *

The next morning, I dressed and went down to our sitting room to find Holmes in his dressing gown, attempting to coax some life into the fire.

"Are you hungry, Watson?" he asked abruptly.

"Not really," I admitted, sitting down in my chair with a sigh, "and I suppose you as usual are not in the least either?"

He growled some reply that I could not hear and finally got the fire to spring to life. Although in a few hours, it probably would no longer be needed. The beauty of the spring day seemed to simply mock the danger we were in, and I almost hated the sun for shining so cheerily.

I wanted to pull the shade up but Holmes refused to allow me even close to the windows. In frustration, I turned to him.

"Holmes, Scotland Yard's museum has VonHerder's air-gun, and Moran would definitely not have had time to construct a new one! He is not going to attempt to shoot with a pistol through a second-story window!" I exclaimed.

Holmes whirled to face me.

"He has friends that you have no idea of, Watson! Moriarty's organization extended into every corner and pocket of London! I am ruling out no possibilities, for the man has infinite resources at his command! Think, Watson! If twenty minutes after he landed in London he could locate a cab driver to run us down, then the man obviously still has connections!"

I bristled at his harsh tone, even though I knew it was the strain of the past eighteen hours talking and not my friend.

"Well how could I be expected to know that, Holmes? I only just found out last year of the true facts about the Moriarty gang! How could I know how extensive it was?"

"You could have paid attention at the trial, Watson!" he snapped impatiently.

"Well, I'm afraid I was engaged with something a little more important to me – trying to deal with the death of my dearest friend, Holmes!"

My tone was harsher than I had meant it to be, and I instantly regretted it when Holmes spun around and fixed me with an angry glare.

Then, to my surprise, his composure seemed to crumple within him and he slumped down into the nearest chair.

"I am sorry, Watson. This business – my nerves are quite on edge. My apologies," he sighed, resting his head on his hand.

"You did not go to bed last night, did you, my dear fellow?" I asked, seeing that he was wearing the same tweed trousers under his dressing gown that he had worn the day before.

He did not answer me; there was no need to.

We spent an uneasy morning without saying a word to each other – he pacing up and down, occasionally scratching away at some disturbing pieces on his violin, and I absently doodling in the pages of one of my journals, trying to write up the account of the left-handed clergyman we had been involved with the preceding month.

Finally, the screeching wails of his instrument grew too much for me and I got up to leave.

The noise stopped instantly.

"Watson, where are you going?"

"Out for a walk, Holmes. I cannot stand being cooped up in this house a moment longer. Danger or no danger, I refuse to just sit here and vegetate, waiting for a man to kill us. I have to _do _something!" I snatched my hat from the stand and stood looking at him defiantly.

Holmes had fixed me with a deep frown.

"Watson, it is too dangerous."

"Rubbish. When the entire Moriarty gang was after us, you ran about London for days on end with only minor incidents happening. With us being watchful, the chances are even slimmer. Either way, Holmes, I will not remain in this house on such a beautiful day."

I had forced a cheerful note into my tone, hoping to dislodge him from his depressive state, but something must have rung false in my voice, for he eyed me skeptically.

"Come on, Holmes. Let's go to a concert or an art gallery or _something_. Surely Moran would not take any chances in a public place like that – there would be too many people around!" I pleaded desperately, wanting my friend to snap out of it and back to his normal collected self.

After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "You really are going?"

"Yes."

"Even against my wishes?"

"Even so," I bluffed – knowing in my heart that I would never leave him alone at a time like this.

Either my skills at dissimulation have improved with time, or else he was too distracted to perceive it, for he sighed and replied, "Then I shall have to come along."

"Good," I responded, handing him his hat.

We exited the building with a little trepidation, but saw nothing whatsoever amiss on Baker Street. I saw Holmes's sharp grey eyes flit between the two men on guard at our door and we nodded to each other.

"Be careful, Mr. Holmes," the one said – I could not recall his name. Hunter, I thought.

Holmes nodded with one of those twitching half-smiles, and we set off.

As the minutes passed into an hour, with absolutely nothing untoward happening, I began to relax somewhat, and I could feel Holmes's tenseness begin to ease as his sharp grip on my arm relaxed its nearly painful hold.

Indeed, it was rather hard to be morose on a day like this one. The sun shining, warm breezes blowing away the smog and grime of the city, and the birds and flowers of the parks we passed were like a soothing balm against the horrors lurking around our minds.

We spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in an art gallery of Holmes's choice – he had got quite heated when I questioned his taste in Renaissance paintings, but I was thrilled to see as he drove his point home with me that his eyes no longer held that fear in them that I had seen last night and that had scared me so.

After an early supper at a local café – Holmes made me stop the meal after a few moments and insisted we wait to see if it had been poisoned (it had not), - we turned our steps back toward Baker Street.

"My dear Watson," he remarked as we strolled along, weaving around dawdling passers-by, "I must say that your advice, as always, was quite sound. I do feel somewhat better now. And you are right, we cannot live our lives in constant fear."

"It is a more dangerous habit than living the life of a detective," I answered him pointedly, "because fear makes a man do things he would not otherwise. It distorts his judgment and weakens his powers."

He shot me a sideways look. "Is that a not-so-subtle hint, old fellow?"

I shrugged. "You are the deducing machine, not I, Holmes!"

We both smiled, for the first time all day, and a few moments later we had arrived at 221b with absolutely nothing happening.

In the beauty of the twilight, I could have believed that the whole thing had been an atrocious nightmare, were it not for the visible reminder of the two stout bobbies standing on either side of our front door.

They saluted when we approached, and Holmes unlocked the door and opened it.

I saw him cast a sharp glance at the floor, and then he stiffened. "Watson!" he hissed, shutting the door without a sound.

"What?"

"Look here," he whispered, pointing to the stairs.

By the light of the hall lamp, I could see it – dry pieces of mud on the carpeted stairs. It had not been there this morning when we left. My face drained of color.

Someone had been in the house.

* * *

**_Oooh, sorry 'bout the cliffhanger! (somewhat sorry, anyway!) - please review!_**


	5. A Tiger Hunt

_**A Tiger Hunt**_

_To tame a tiger, one has to know its nature. – Chinese proverb

* * *

_

We stood for a moment, listening intently for any sounds of an intruder. I could hear nothing, and judging by Holmes's expression, neither could he.

He turned to me and laid a finger to his lips, motioning me to silence. Then he turned to the door, noiselessly opening it and stepping outside, I close at his heels.

When it had closed, he accosted the curious policemen.

"What's wrong, Mr. 'Olmes?" the one asked.

"Peterson, someone has been in that house while the Doctor and I were out. Have you and Hunter been here the entire time?"

The officer looked scandalized.

"No, sir, Inspector Lestrade came by 'round noon to check on us and to give us a bit of a break, like. Hunter an' me, we went down th' street for a sandwich an' a cup o' coffee. We were back within the hour, sir."

"And Lestrade stayed here the whole time?"

"'S far as I know, yes, sir!"

"And you let no one in or out?"

"Of course not, sir!"

"Thank you, Peterson."

Holmes turned and looked at me. We both had the same idea at the same moment.

"Your bedroom window," I said quietly, remembering the times I had let him in through it over the years when he wanted to avoid being seen. Holmes could be extremely absent-minded at times and often forgot to lock it, to make matters worse.

"It is the only other entrance he could use without being spotted. But I somehow doubt he would be capable of climbing that high - Moran must be nearing sixty now, correct?"

"I believe so," I replied, my brow furrowed in thought, "but regardless, we can discuss that later. He might still be in the house, Holmes."

"Right. Peterson, Hunter. I need you both this instant."

The constables, who had been listening to our exchange with obvious unease, pulled out their truncheons and Holmes reopened the front door.

We spent the next half hour turning 221b upside-down, but without finding any traces of an intruder. Nothing in the sitting room or either of our bedrooms appeared to have been touched, and even Holmes could not find any further traces of Moran or anyone else. The policemen checked the basement and Mrs. Hudson's quarters as well as ours, and there was absolutely no sign that anyone had been there.

Holmes did find slight traces on his window where the dust had been disturbed recently (he had indeed forgotten to lock it) – but if Moran had been in the house, he was not now.

Thanking the constables for their help, we saw them back out to the street and went back up to the sitting room. Holmes lit a cigarette with a slightly unsteady hand, his brow creased with thought and worry.

"Holmes?"

"The stairs, Watson. Why the stairs?"

"What about them?"

"Why mud on the stairs? Why not under my windowsill? Why not in the rest of the house? The days have been extremely mild, with no rainfall in the last week. How would someone track mud in anyhow? And why was it only on the stairs, if he came in through the window?" Holmes was thinking out loud, as he often did when puzzled, and I was at a loss to answer his questions.

Then a thought struck me.

"Yes, Holmes, because he entered and exited through the bedroom window, so he would have had no need to use the stairs at all. Why was the mud there, when he had no reason to go down them?"

"Precisely, Watson! Why?"

I was too tired and worried to bother thinking about the problem any longer – that was Holmes's role in our partnership. Mine was to watch, be wary, ask questions, and take notes.

Which reminded me – I had been wanting to touch up my notes from one of those cases we were engaged upon a fortnight before. I had left the notebook in my room this morning; fetching it and finishing my editing would give me something to do for the remainder of what was probably going to be a sleepless night.

"Holmes, I'm going to run upstairs and grab a journal to edit while you ponder, all right?"

He waved me out with the stem of his pipe and went back to his introspection.

I left Holmes morosely puffing on that, his oldest pipe, and mounted the stairs to my bedroom. I had no trouble locating the volume even in the dim light, because I had left it upon my writing desk. I had closed the journal and stuffed it into my inside coat pocket, when I heard a stealthy, almost unintelligible sound behind me.

And before I could turn round, I felt the cold barrel of a pistol against the back of my neck.

At the same instant, I realized I had left my own revolver with Holmes in the sitting room.

Part of me was instantly glad – at least he would have some kind of a chance against our enemy. I swallowed hard, willing my voice to be as cool and collected as Holmes's always was, and spoke calmly.

"Colonel, you could at least allow me the courtesy of facing the firing squad."

I felt the man's hands searching my pockets for weapons – he had yet to utter a sound. Then he withdrew, and along with him the revolver.

"Very well, Doctor, you may turn around now."

I did so. Colonel Sebastian Moran had not changed much in five years, save that his grizzled hair had become a little whiter and thinner, and the lines of deep hatred in his face had become even deeper. His bristling mustaches and piercing, baleful eyes once again put me in remembrance of the tigers he so loved to hunt long ago.

And as always when a tiger is cornered, he becomes infinitely more dangerous.

I contemplated calling for help, knowing Holmes would hear me, but then swiftly made my decision.

As soon as a shot were fired, Moran's game would be up – the police and Holmes would both hear. And I determined that that one shot he had should be aimed at me, not at my friend.

Holmes had nearly died at the Reichenbach Falls to save me – I would not allow this man to get a chance to finish what Professor Moriarty failed to accomplish. I now had the chance to repay Holmes for what he had done for me in 1891.

As if reading my earliest thoughts, Moran cocked the gun. "I would not try any heroics, Doctor. You of all people should know I am an excellent shot. I could drop you before you uttered a sound."

"Tell me, Moran, how did you get in here?" I asked, playing for time while I tried to think of what to do.

"You are definitely as slow as you portray yourself to be in the Strand Magazine, Doctor."

"You did not come here to discuss my literary shortcomings or my obtuseness, Moran." I was inordinately pleased that, up til now at least, my voice remained as steady as ever.

Moran's eyes gleamed – he was toying with me, like a cat does with a mouse before finally pouncing upon it for the kill.

I repressed a shiver at the thought.

"Simplicity itself, Doctor," the man said, sounding too much like Holmes for my comfort, "I had a confederate. Nice lad, that volunteered to climb the trellis to Holmes's bedroom."

"Yes, we rather thought you were a little old to be making that kind of a trip yourself, Moran," I said dryly. The old tiger-hunter scowled. But then the rest of his tale suddenly became clear to me.

"The confederate planted the mud on the stairs and then left the way he came. Then when we came back –"

"Holmes instantly noticed the stairs, as I knew he would," the man replied.

"And we instinctively called the police in, leaving the front door unguarded for a few minutes –"

"As I knew you would. It was no great feat to conceal myself about the place and stay out of those bumbling constables' ways. After they had left, I crept up the stairs past the sitting room where you and that insufferable genius were discussing your precious mud, and continued up to this room. I've been waiting for you, Doctor." This last statement was made with such a chilling glare that it sent a shiver up my spine.

I knew then what Holmes must have been feeling when he faced Moriarty in the sitting room in '91, that feeling of utter helplessness and extreme peril. He had been facing a snake-like opponent, sly and deadly.

I was facing one no less deadly, but more feline than serpentine. Moran was a tiger sprung from a cage of bitterness, and I began to feel very much like a trapped animal he was toying with before he finally decided to pounce upon me.

And the feeling was very frightening, indeed. But just then I heard a sound that frightened me even more.

"Watson? Watson! Is everything all right up there?"

Holmes must have realized I was taking rather a long time to locate a journal.

My eyes met Moran's, and I saw the man move for the door.

"No!" The cry sprang from my lips unbidden. Moran stopped and looked at me with those menacing yellow eyes.

"Then get rid of him, Doctor!" he hissed, "I am here for you, not Holmes!"

"I shall - get out of the way!" I pushed my way around the man, petrified that Holmes would open the door and receive a bullet for his trouble.

I cracked open the door and saw Holmes halfway up the stairs. "I decided to work a little bit up here, Holmes," I said, hoping desperately my voice was not betraying anything amiss, "I shall be a while longer."

"Are you sure? Isn't it rather dark up there? Let me fetch you a candle."

"No!" I hastily corrected my exclamation, "I'm quite all right, my dear fellow. You are better off trying to work on the problem of how the mud got on the stairs. Don't - disturb yourself."

I had nearly given the show away when, halfway through my last statement, I felt Moran's revolver pressed warningly against my neck. Taking a deep breath, I hoped Holmes could not see my face in the dim light.

"Are you certain nothing is amiss, Watson?"

The gun barrel was pushed harder into my neck.

"Quite sure, Holmes. I shall be down later."

But even as I said it, I knew it probably was not true. Moran was here to carry out what Professor Moriarty and Holmes had set up as the bargain over the Reichenbach Falls: namely, that I was not to be harmed and Moran was to go free, unless Holmes returned to England.

But Holmes had returned, to put Moran where he could never harm either of us again. It was sheer bad luck that the man had escaped – now he was going to wreak his revenge by killing me as his master had intended to do back in 1891.

And by doing so, he would no doubt be doing more hurt to my poor friend than if he had gone after Holmes himself. Poor Holmes! He would feel so much guilt when the thing was all over – but surely it was better for him to feel guilty and still be alive, than for Moran to get his hands on Holmes as well.

Yes, definitely better. I could leave this life happily, knowing that I had finished it in an effort to save Holmes's.

"Really, Holmes. I shall be down later," I repeated, "do try to get a few hours' sleep, won't you?"

"Very well, Watson," he said, turning to leave.

I knew then what Holmes must have felt, seeing me walk away from the Reichenbach Falls, knowing he would never see me again in this life.

And as I shut my bedroom door and turned to face Colonel Moran, I realized what he must have felt when Moriarty appeared on the narrow path that led to safety at one end and certain death at the other.

* * *

**_To be continued... thanks for reading - please review!_**


	6. The Action of the Tiger

_**The Action of the Tiger**_

_Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,  
Or close the wall up with our English dead!  
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man  
As modest stillness and humility.  
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,  
Then imitate __**the action of the tiger**__:  
Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood,  
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage.  
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect:_

_- William Shakespeare, in King Henry V_

* * *

I stood with my back to the doorway, facing Colonel Sebastian Moran across the twelve-foot space of my bedroom. Nearly point-blank range – I would never stand a chance.

But at least Holmes would. I knew the police and he would make it up here after the shot had been fired and would finally put the tiger back in that cage where he belonged.

The man himself was regarding me strangely, in that feline fashion that had so unnerved me from the moment I saw him for the first time. Even back at the Adair inquest, something about the man had bothered me. Then when we arrested him in Camden House, his malicious nature did more than just bother me – his obvious hatred for both Holmes and myself struck me as being unnatural.

I had not learned of Professor Moriarty's bargain with Holmes at the Falls until last winter. No wonder Moran and Holmes had so hated each other.

And I had been the unwitting cause of all the drama, all the careful planning and pursuit. It had been because of me. It had been my fault that Holmes had been condemned to wander the earth as a fugitive for three years after surviving the struggle with the late Professor Moriarty.

It seemed only fitting that I now try to make retribution for being the cause of that sordid affair eight years ago. And that thought gave me the courage to face Moran without flinching.

I had no regrets, only a wish that I had been able to say goodbye to Holmes and do something to spare him the pain I knew he would be feeling soon.

How well I knew that pain! Facing this man in this my bedroom, I knew exactly what Holmes had been feeling all those years ago at the Reichenbach Falls. Soon he would be knowing how I felt upon my return there.

All this takes time to write, but everything flashed through my mind in a matter of split-seconds. Moran looked at me with the very devil in his yellowish eyes.

"What are your thoughts, Doctor?"

The question startled me, coming from the most dangerous man in London. Then I realized he was merely taunting me. A cruel, sick jest, its only purpose being to give the cat amusement before it pounces upon the mouse. I did not rise to the bait.

Lifting my chin determinedly, I stared the man down, saying nothing.

For a moment, his deep hatred, eight years in the making, seemed to burn into my very soul. I shall never forget the absolute, deep rage I saw in those baleful eyes until the day I die.

Moran was the very embodiment of hatred and bitterness, and I was deeply, wholeheartedly glad he was venting his revenge on me and not on Sherlock Holmes.

He slowly, deliberately brought that pistol up to point it at my heart.

I forced myself not to flinch, not willing to give him any more satisfaction than he had already. He cocked the weapon, and his eyes flashed with the culmination of eight years of hatred and anger. And I knew with a certainty that my next moments would be my last.

But Providence evidently had other plans.

As Moran's finger tightened on the trigger, my bedroom door flew open behind me and I was paralyzed with horror to hear Holmes's voice.

"Watson, Lestrade and Gregson are downstairs, and I told them about – _dear God_!"

It was a prayer, not an oath, as he saw the horrible scene taking place within my bedroom.

Knowing we were both out of time, I took the only chance I knew either of us had and launched myself desperately at Moran, hoping to distract his attention away from Holmes.

The gun the man held went off, and his aim, as ever, was true; I felt a sharp pain in my chest as it struck home – but as I fell to the floor in shock, my dazed mind even then somehow realized something was not right. I knew what a bullet wound felt like, and this was not the feeling.

But as I fell, I heard a sound that shall haunt me for the rest of my days.

Sherlock Holmes, shouting my name in a frantic paroxysm of terror. Even now the remembrance turns my stomach and sometimes still pays a spectral visit to my nightmares.

Now I know what he felt, listening to my cries after I had returned to Reichenbach in '91 to find him gone, I thought forever. The awfulness of those sounds I hope no one else shall ever have to endure.

I was gasping for air, the entire breath knocked out of my lungs, unable to move much or see clearly due to lack of oxygen, but I remember hearing a pounding of feet on the stairs, a voice shouting "Shoot to kill, Lestrade!" and several ensuing gunshots.

Then dead, dead silence.

And then a voice, merely a hoarse whisper, somewhere close above my head.

"Dear God, no! Please!"

Simultaneously with hearing the words, I finally got a long breath and welcome oxygen rushed through my deprived lungs and body. Gasping and coughing slightly, my vision finally cleared, and I saw the dreadful scene before me.

Lestrade and Gregson were standing in the doorway, guns drawn, horrified expressions on their faces. Colonel Sebastian Moran was face down on the floor of my bedroom, obviously quite dead.

But Sherlock Holmes was kneeling beside me on the floor, eyes closed, his lips moving as if in prayer. He was shaking all over, and had it been anyone else I should have sworn I saw tears roll down his thin face.

I dismissed the thought along with the confusion in my mind, however, as I realized what had happened.

"Holmes?" I gasped, my voice still breathless due to the sharp aching pain in my chest.

He started violently and opened his eyes, staring at me in fearful shock.

"Watson? Lie still, old chap. Lestrade, call Sir Leslie Oakshott, immediately!"

"No, Holmes!"

"Watson, I said to lie still!"

"Will you be quiet for a minute?" I gasped in exasperation, rolling over onto my elbow, "look!"

I reached somewhat shakily into my inside coat pocket, where I had hurriedly stuffed that journal I had come up the stairs after. It had remained there all through that dreadful interview, and it had saved my life – by stopping the bullet from Moran's gun.

I put it into the shell-shocked detective's trembling hands, and he stared at it for a long, long minute, saying nothing.

I took the opportunity to manage sitting up with an effort, and I moved closer to him, wincing from the pain in my chest. I was going to have quite a nasty bruise as a relic of this little adventure.

"Holmes, it's all right," I assured him after a moment.

He looked once more at the journal, tracing the outline of the bullet with a trembling finger, and then he placed it carefully in his pocket.

"I shall never again twit you about your scribbling, Watson," he said in a low voice.

Then, and only then, did he turn to me. In the dim light from my one lamp, I could not tell if his eyes were twinkling with joy to find me unhurt or glistening with unshed tears over what might have been.

Either way, he gave me no time to think about it, offering me his hand and gently helping me stand to my feet. I was still rather dazed by the whole affair, and my chest was beginning to hurt as if I'd been run over by an omnibus.

After I had been helped up, I leaned heavily on Holmes's arm, answering in the affirmative his near-panicked questions about my being all right. In the midst of my trying to calm his shot nerves down somewhat, Lestrade awkwardly cleared his throat.

Holmes and I both looked at the Yarders, who were still standing there, obviously somewhat embarrassed.

"My apologies, gentlemen," I said, breathing heavily, trying to remember my manners since Holmes obviously was in no frame of mind to, "And thank you for taking care of Moran for us."

Gregson's jaw dropped, and Lestrade elbowed him.

"I'm – glad to see you're all right, Doctor," the latter said, his voice showing genuine relief for me, "when we heard that commotion from upstairs – well, I for one thought we were too late."

I glanced down at the motionless figure of Sebastian Moran, finally at rest on the floor of my room, and shivered.

Holmes's hand tightened protectively on my arm.

I had to admit, I felt no remorse for the fact that the man was now dead. He and his late master had done their best to make my life and the life of my dearest friend a veritable living hell for a good many years. Thank God that last tendril of that most malignant influence was gone from our lives, for good this time.

"What the devil made you come up here, Holmes?" I asked.

"The mud on the stairs, Watson," he sighed, "when Lestrade and Gregson came by to check on us and relieve the guards outside, the thought struck me that perhaps one of us had merely left it on the stairs on our way out. I checked my own footwear and saw nothing, but I came up to check yours."

"And thank God you did, Mr. Holmes," Gregson interjected. "Now, gentlemen, we'll get this villain out of here. Lestrade, run down and fetch the constable on the beat. Have him send for a wagon from the Yard."

The ferret-faced man glared at his colleague. "You fetch him!" he replied in annoyance.

"I am giving the orders here, Lestrade. Now scarper!"

Holmes and I both broke into a badly needed laugh. Now that the danger to us was over and their common enemy and purpose dead, these two were at each other's throats once more, just as in the olden days.

I winced as the motion of hearty laughter shook my damaged ribcage.

"Let's get you out of this room, Watson," Holmes said gently, steering me toward the door.

Within a half-hour, Moran's body was removed to the morgue, and after thanking the Yarders for their care and helpfulness, I found myself lying once more on the couch in our sitting room for the second time that week. And once more, Holmes was driving me absolutely out of my mind with his fussing.

"Holmes, will you be still, for heaven's sake!" I expostulated, my head hurting from trying to follow his rapid pacing around the room.

He whirled to face me.

"Why in the world did you not give me an indication that something was wrong, Watson?" he demanded, face flushed with either anger or worry, I did not know which.

"Because I didn't want you walking through that door and stopping a bullet!"

"Watson!"

"Well?"

For the second time that day, I saw the man's composure crumble once again. Collapsing into the chair beside me, he put his head in his hands miserably.

"Holmes, what's the matter? Moran is dead, and all is well again," I said gently.

He looked up at me.

"Don't you ever, and I mean _ever_, dare do something like that again, Watson," he whispered intensely.

"I don't plan on making facing mad gunmen in my bedroom a regular habit, Holmes," I said, trying to lighten that almost frightening mood he was in.

"This is not a joking matter, Watson!" he snapped.

"Perhaps not, my dear fellow, but neither should it be cause for the funk you are in," I replied pointedly.

But I did understand why he was reacting like this. It was a delayed reaction from what had happened upstairs. He had been frightened so very badly that he was an absolute emotional wreck.

And that was so disconcerting and so unusual that it made both of us quite on edge.

"I need a drink, Holmes," I said emphatically, starting to rise.

"Lie still, Watson! I shall get it," he snapped.

"You have a perfectly dreadful bedside manner, Holmes!" I shot after his retreating back.

He turned with a snort to look at me, and I raised my eyebrows.

"Well, you do!" I exclaimed lamely.

I was thrilled beyond measure to see him then laugh out loud for the first time since this dreadful business first started.

Then I joined him, a good deal of my tension washing away with the feeling.

He poured two stiff drinks and returned to his seat, handing me one glass. After we had sat for a few minutes in silence, I heard him chuckle softly.

"Holmes?"

"_Three people equal one tiger_," he repeated the proverb I had mentioned yesterday – was it only yesterday?

"What about it?"

"Just that you, my dear fellow, faced the tiger all by yourself, when you specifically told me there was safety in numbers and that you would not leave me!"

"Yes, well -" I began, somewhat embarrassed.

He stopped my spluttering with an upraised hand.

"To give you a quotation of my own, Watson, I believe those lines from the bard's _King Henry V_ perfectly describe your qualities, my dear chap.

_'In peace there's nothing so becomes a man  
As modest stillness and humility.  
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,  
Then imitate the action of the tiger:'_

I am not sure which of you reminds me more of that magnificent creature, Watson. Moran may have had the claws, but you undoubtedly possess the heart."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes left me lying, entirely speechless, on the couch. As he picked up his violin and plucked one of the strings, I leaned back with a wide smile, putting my hands behind my head.

And once again, all was right in our little world.

Until the next time, I supposed.

* * *

_**Finis! Thanks for reading - please review!**  
_


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